


Don't Have To Make Any Promises, Love

by bravado



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Prompt Fill, not much else to say about it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravado/pseuds/bravado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for this prompt: "what if after Amy's funeral Simon disappears again to sort out ULA stuff or something? maybe looking at the fallout with Kieren when he gets back?".</p><p>It's my first time posting fic on ao3, my first time writing for this fandom, and my first fanfic in about 4 years. Hopefully I'm not too rusty! And yes, the title is sadly a Keaton Henson lyric. Unoriginal, I know, but I'm horrible at titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Have To Make Any Promises, Love

Kieren doesn’t see Simon for three days after Amy’s funeral.

At the wake he’d said he was staying put, but when the bungalow is still empty that third rainy morning Kieren begins to wonder. He knocks again, glass panelling rattling in the door, but there’s no answer. Biting down a surge of bitter disappointment, Kieren turns and leaves.

The roads are still wet and heavy clouds threaten to collapse in on themselves at any moment, but Kieren doesn’t hurry. He stuffs his hands in his pockets out of habit and tries not to think about anything, watching the mud beneath his boots instead. The rain had hardly let up since the day of the fete, and everything was damp and waterlogged, Roarton quiet under the oppressive weight of the weather. (The living didn’t come out if they could avoid it, hating the cold and the wet that seeped into their clothes and their bones. )

You couldn’t feel that kind of stuff when you were PDS. You could stand in the rain for hours, hair dripping in your eyes and cover-up mousse washing down your neck, and you wouldn’t shiver once. You could wear shorts during the frosty winter dawns and not a hair on your body would stand on end in the cold. 

You could lay in hot water for days, but never be warm.

It’s only when his heavy boots meet the paving of his driveway that Kieren looks up, already fumbling his keys from his pocket, and Simon’s waiting. Kieren stops, keys jingling quietly in his pale fingers.

Simon is wearing cover-up. He has a button down shirt on – the white one he wore to that first lunch – and there’s a duffel on the ground by the back door. Clearly he’d been sitting on the step, the same way Kieren found Jem sometimes, but now he is standing and looking at Kieren with falsely blue eyes. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it after a few moments of silence. He tries again.

“Hey.”

His voice is soft, worn like the sweaters he wears, and Kieren frowns.

“Why?” Kieren demands, firm but quiet. They’re still standing metres apart in his driveway, but he hears the small noise Simon makes in the back of his throat; pained and apologetic. Simon’s fingers flex at his sides and he looks away from Kieren. 

“I had to.” Simon says, voice still low and tired. Kieren exhales slowly.

“Come on.” He says, crossing the metres between them in easy strides before brushing past Simon and unlocking the side door. He leans to heft up Simon’s bag, then trudges into the house, scuffing his muddy boots on the mat as he goes. He glances back but Simon hasn’t moved.

“Come on.” Kieren repeats, softer now, and waits for Simon to turn and meet his eyes. Kieren doesn’t smile, but his expression gentles. Simon’s shoulders sink deeper into their familiar slouch, but he follows him inside.

They go up to Kieren’s room; Simon’s bag is dumped by the door.Kieren absently notes that (were he still alive) he may have been embarrassed about how young it seemed; full of old school certificates and loose sketches. Instead, he moves around Simon, who lingers just inside the entrance, and shuts the door. Simon doesn’t move, so when Kieren turns back around they’re closer than they’ve been since the graveyard. Simon looks down at him, waiting. 

Kieren closes his eyes for a long moment, exhales. He opens his white eyes and fixes them on Simon.

“I don’t need to know where you went,” he says, and he’s almost surprised his voice is so even in the silent room, “I’m not saying I don’t care, because I do, and if you want this,” he gestures between them, “To keep being a thing, you’re going to have to start telling me things. Like where you go and what you do there.” 

Simon watches him with such intensity that Kieren briefly thinks that, if he asked now, standing so close in his bedroom, Simon might even tell him. Outside, it begins to rain softly.

“But for now, I just want to know why.” Kieren says, and Simon reaches for him, but he moves just enough to show that it’s not welcome. Not yet. 

Simon’s hand drops, and his brow furrows. Kieren hates the mousse, hates the contacts, because he can’t read Simon like this, can’t discern his concealed face. How ironic.

“I already told you, I had to go.” Simon says, still soft, and he’s looking at Kieren’s mouth to avoid his eyes.

“I’m going to need more than that.” 

“I can’t… there are things I had to sort out. Loose ends, that kind of stuff.” Simon says, and it’s like each word has been dragged from his mouth by force. He looks at Kieren then, eyes intense even through the contacts, and it’s those kinds of looks that remind Kieren this man converted people. He doesn’t waver.

“You said you were going to stay. You... well, you didn’t promise, but you said you were staying put, Simon.” His name makes a look of hurt cross Simon’s features, but Kieren is almost certain he didn’t cause it. Simon’s hand comes up again, slower this time, and Kieren doesn’t pull away when he rests is feather-light on the side of his neck.

“I know.” He says, maintaining eye contact as he steps a fraction closer. “I’m sorry.” His eyes flick to Kieren’s mouth, but he sounds sincere, and Kieren can’t deny the ghost-warmth his sense memory has conjured where Simon’s palm touches his skin. He leans in, and Simon inhales softly.

“Don’t do it again.” Kieren warns, and he’s serious even as his breath ghosts across Simon’s mouth. They’re close enough that it almost makes him cross-eyed, but Kieren stares hard into Simon’s eyes for a long moment before Simon nods minutely.

“I won’t.” Simon murmurs, and then “Promise.”

Kieren kisses him then, firm and without the same sweetness of the last time, but Simon’s mouth is still just the tiniest bit desperate under his. Simon’s other hand comes up to cup his cheek, and Kieren holds the front of his button-down loosely. The room is silent but for the rain pattering on the window and the sound of them kissing, and when Kieren pulls away he doesn’t move far. Simon’s fingers flex against his skin at the loss, and flecks of pale skin glow in the spots where his cover up has rubbed off. Kieren supposes it’s on his lips now, maybe smudged against his chin, but he doesn’t care. He just watches Simon, fingers still twisted loosely in his shirt.

“Never again.” He says softly, and Simon nods.

They kiss again, briefly, before Kieren frowns and pulls away. He can taste the bland, thick cover-up mousse on his lips, and he wipes them on the back of his hand to get rid of the taste.

“Sorry.” Simon mutters, but Kieren shakes his head. He reaches up and brushes pale fingertips along Simon’s right cheek. They come away beige.

“Take this off?” He asks, then runs a finger over the delicate skin under Simon’s eye. Simon breathes in sharply. “And the contacts.” The rain is getting heavier outside, and Simon nods. Kieren takes his hand and leads him to the bathroom, washing his own hands and mouth before stepping away from the sink to make room for Simon. He strips off his parka, and Kieren takes it from him, before rolling up his sleeves and washing the horrible mousse from his hands and face. The water is brown as it spirals down the drain, and it’s several minutes before it runs clear. Simon turns off the faucet and, with still wet fingers, removes his blue contacts, dropping them in the small bin under the sink.

He turns back to Kieren, small droplets clinging to his inky lashes and dripping onto his shirt collar. Kieren kisses his wet, discoloured lips briefly before passing him before passing him the brown towel that once covered the mirror. Simon hands it back after drying his face and hands, and Kieren keeps the parka as he leads Simon back to his room. It’s poorly lit, only grey light filtering through the thin, gauze-like curtains. Kieren closes the door behind them and leads Simon to the bed, lying on his side and pressing himself against the edge to leave room for him. Simon stares down at him in awe for a few long moments, until Kieren takes his hand lightly and tugs Simon down into the space beside him. 

He lays Simon’s parka over them both when they’re settled, and presses himself close to Simon’s chest. One arm is curved under his head, his left hand still twined with Simon’s right. Kieren presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes.

“I missed you.” He breathes into the space between them, and Simon’s fingers tighten minutely against his. His parka smells of rain and the bungalow, the detergent Amy liked and cigarette smoke. Kieren breathes it in deeply.

They’re silent for a long time, nothing but the sound of the rain penetrating their cocoon of quiet comfort. They don’t sleep, just lie together and breathe each other’s breath (they don’t have to breathe, not really), and after some time Simon wraps his left arm delicately over Kieren’s waist. Kieren moves closer, imagining he can feel the warmth of Simon’s body, the parka over them. Fingers stroke lightly over his back through his shirt and hoodie, and Kieren kisses Simon gently in the quickly growing darkness.

Later Kieren will ask Simon where he disappears to. They’ll argue, and Simon will go back to the bungalow and not talk to him for a few days. Every morning, though, he’ll walk by Kieren’s house slowly, all bundled up in his lumpy jumpers. Just reminding Kieren that he’s still there. He’s not going away again. He promised.

For now, though, they just lie on Kieren’s too-small bed, arms entwined, knees brushing, listening to the rain.


End file.
